Monthly Archives: March 2017

With modern life being what it is, with it’s Twitters and Big Macs and Smartphones, and beautiful healing crystals, it’s pretty easy to get completely mixed up in the ancient trappings of astrology and all the secrets it holds. So easy, in fact, that most have never had their proper horoscope breathed all over them. Find your sign and feel my warm breath on your supple little neck sprouts!

The Craven

December 31st – ‘Til Next Year

You needn’t worry about the scorpion fish, Craven. I put that saucy little sawfish in a cage in the attic. It shan’t escape. So run freely into the eve. Take it. Take the eve and suck the sweet gelatinous matter from its bones. You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’? Vegas baby!

The Astrologer’s Children

July 4th, 1776 – The Day My Love Was Shot Dead

Pib? Barmble? What are you two still doing awake? You young lads best scuttle back into your crypt before The Dreamsmith shambles with an ambling bramble by you, Masters Pib and Barmble. Look, you two mean the world to me and I’m just trying to raise you both right. And as for your mother… nah, you know what? Just get in bed.

Beam Boy!® The Only Super Powered Beam Made Of 100% Real Boy!

The Future – The End of All Beams

Oh damn! Is that the new Apple Watch? Fuck can that thing cook turtles and shit like in the commercials? I am sooooo jealous. I would sever my left leg for one of those. Anyways, your horoscope says you should be on the lookout to receive a heavy, wet, leg-shaped parcel soon.

The Dreamsmith

When The Words Evaporate From The Pages – June 12th

Dude, can you slink into my crypt and scare my sweet sleeping baby babs? You’ll know the signal when you hear it. Thanks, I owe you dude. I’m gonna get you like a half ounce man. What? Yea of course I’m good for it, kind shit my guy.

Benjamin Devino And His Shithead Twin, Harrison

Born September 3rd, 2002 at 3:36AM and 7:26AM respectively

When are you two going to learn to grow up? You two are just havoc incarnate, ya shit melons. I mean, it’s not enough that you two financially burden your parents with your twinsmenship, but Harrison also took his sweet time strolling his way out of Mama’s baby palace. Frankly, I think you two have been living rent free long enough…

Green Pisces

Green February 19th – Green March 20th

Look Green Pisces. We get it. You’re green. You’ve really made that abundantly clear to all of us by now. Just give it a rest for a bit, okay?

Hoo Hoooo – Hee Heee

Catherine

You’re This Sign If Your Name Is Catherine. I Thought That’d Be Pretty Clear…

Hey Catherine, or Cathy, or hell, even Cat! Trust you’re doing alright today? I sure hope you are. But statistically, one of you is going to get hit by like, two different cars at once. So I mean… roll the bones and hope you’re lucky I guess?

The Scorpion Fish

Every Moment Of Time That “The Craven” Is Not

The conditions are perfect my sweet. I’ve readied the skies and soon the black ichor shall raindown. That foolish Craven is in Vegas tonight, getting sloshed and losing $200 dollars to a broken vending machine. You may reap what we have sought after for so long my pisciscene dream. Swim for us both.

UNIONDALE — Verbal evidence from my friends and some strangers seems to allegedly suggest that I vomited on a girl, rolled around in some beer, vomited again, and then passed out in the commuter lounge bathroom.

My roommates and I made of the plans to go out to a party at one of Hofstra’s fraternity parties because we were sick of getting drunk and crying in our own dorm room. The night was started with a pre-game in our friend’s room: several beers were shotgunned and several shots were consumed. No one was sure on the number. When asked for comment my friend Steve said, “you drank a shitload that night, man. Like we all saw everything coming.” He then called me a, “Fucking idiot who needs to get his priorities straight.” I told him to let me live my life and now he has threatened to stop buying weed for me.

After I arrived at the party, I was allegedly a “riot” according to this one girl in my Math Excursions class. “Yeah, you were like dancing on this wall really getting into it. You’re so weird in class I didn’t know you had this wild side in you,” said one girl who chose to remain anonymous. “I came over to try to dance with you, but then you fell right off the wall into some beer,” she recounts.

At this point I allegedly started rolling around in the beer yelling, “Wrap me in a dough and call me Babe the Dirty Pig Boy. Feed me your dinner scraps!”

My friend, Deborah, who just happened to be at the party, helped me up. When asked about the situation she said, “It was really just a strange night for you. You were adamant about being wrapped in dough for a while then went into the frat house and ate all their hummus!”

I replied with, “That’s crazy! I did that!?”

At some point after this, the time cannot be certain, the cops showed up. Almost as soon as they arrived, I started vomiting a hummus-y beer mixture out of my mouth. My clothes were unscathed in the morning, so I was shocked when I was told this news. My friend Molly sorted it all out for me, “You threw up all over me. Down my shirt, on my shoes, everywhere. Then you made out with Stacy! And you know I have a crush on you!” I ran away shortly after that, scared of her crying or forcing me into commitment, so she did not give anymore quotes.

Several minutes of the night cannot be described, because no one was with me. My friend had left to go to the popular late night convenience store, “Bricktown.” When he found me, I was lying on a tree singing Rhianna’s 2007 hit, “Umbrella” despite sources confirming that Future was playing at the time. He allegedly put me around his shoulder and helped me walk back to campus. “You know how much more I can lift than you at the gym,” he said on the situation, “it was a breeze carrying you back.”

The two of us then went to Sbarro’s, the best pizza on Long Island, where we ordered several slices. I was said to have taken one bite and then immediately vomited on the floor. My friend then took me to the commuter lounge where I destroyed it with my vomit and urine and proceeded to pass out, pants at my ankles.

My other roommates were then called to come get me with their car, for they were sober. When asked to comment on the situation my friend Mike said, “You kept telling us, ‘if you try to make me move, I’m going to scream,’ you’re such a little fuck!” They eventually got me to my dorm and into bed.

I awoke the next morning with the feeling that goes along with a blackout: What happened last night? It could have been anything. I could not expect how disappointed I would be in myself after hearing the story.

At time of print, we have very few details regarding the appropriate amount of apologies that must be made, or if the girl from Math Excursions will call me back.

I was five months into my investigation of the hazing allegations levied at Sigma Pi fraternity when I caught wind of something far more sinister. Hofstra students are likely to remember the well publicized and widely clicked-on reporting that brought us the images that are now iconic additions to the Hofstra canon. A man shoved in a cage? That’s pretty stirring. How about two fraternity brothers showering each other in regurgitated dairy? Haven’t forgotten that image, have you? Of course not, because The Chronicle published it and the New York Post republished it, without credit. Well, that was in November, and despite our best efforts to wring as much publicity from this story as possible, the Sigma Pi trail has gone cold. It was at this juncture that the editors of Nonsense Humor Magazine informed me that something far worse was brewing behind Hofstra’s closed doors. Even worse than praying on the insecurities of young men to somehow validate yourself before becoming continuously caught up in a cycle of abuse from which you will never likely escape, worse than hanging out on a regular basis with the people who be-caged you, and worse than me not yet being verified on Twitter. All of these small grievances paled in comparison to the shit storm I was made aware of, in the killing fields that are the HvZ hazing ground. Former members reduced to shambling corpses, foregoing social interaction, hunting down other members, shadows of what they once were… But why? And for what gain?

The trouble within the HvZ organization began when an anonymous source gave Nonsense Humor unfiltered Groupme messages concerning the 2015-2016 school year. References made to players being pushed to attend “rules meetings” or suffer the consequence of not playing in “the Big Game.” Reports indicate that other coercive hazing techniques were employed, including discouraging members from consuming alcohol during meetings, not immediately adding new members to the groupchat and forcing members to engage in public displays of humiliation, such as playing with children’s toys in public.

“It’s just messed up, you know? Not letting club members drink during meetings. I tried to join HvZ my freshman year, and when I pulled out my cans of 4loko, they asked if it could wait until after the meeting,” said the greased up Nonsense underclassman we chased down and asked for comment. “That’s what I love about Nonsense. Hahaha, they get it. One time, Matt told me to race another kid to see who could finish one faster, haha, to see who was coolest. I won. I was the coolest. I just wish people didn’t feel like they have to be hazed in order to feel like they fit in somewhere.”

While these screenshots did not seem to point to the most destructive parts of the organization, it did reveal an even stranger incident. Images of members with Nerf guns, and other foam weaponry as well as an empty cage in the background raised many questions. While Nonsense Humor was not able to confirm what the cage could possibly be for, randomly shouted out suggestions ranged from a new age bookshelf to alien torture device used to indoctrinate new members. We sought an official comment from HvZ, to attempt to clarify the situation, to no avail.

“It’s a filing cabinet, you vultures! It’s a filing cabinet!” cried the President of HvZ when we asked him to explain himself. “Get that microphone out of my face! I saw you take my name plate off of my desk and slip it in your bag I would really like to have it back please. Why are you doing thi–” But it was no use. They would continue to dodge our answers.

The largest grievance of all came from another batch of GroupMe screenshots, this time highlighting a short discussion between several members concerning the critically acclaimed 2015 Hofstra Issue of Nonsense Humor Magazine. The names of students involved in this conversation have purposefully been omitted from this article to better protect the identities of those involved.

“Yeah I just read that new Nonsense Issue?”

“How was it?”

“To be honest, it was kind of eh. I don’t know why they bring us up.”

“Sounds weird, I’ll pass.”

“Do they not like us or something? I’m friends with a couple of them, and they say that everything is fine. It just seems kind of unfair, when they are literally just as insular, weird and–”

The conversation goes on from there, but it only becomes more offensive and shocking, however the focus of the story cannot be on poor tastes and a lack of a keen sense of humor as shown in the previous interaction, but instead on the terrifying treatment of those who cannot handle the rigorous hazing process. Students go from active and outgoing with bright futures to empty shells who live to hunt down the more successful “survivors” of the hazing, seeking to convert them.

When reached out for comment, the school simply regurgitated their anti-hazing policy and promised to send out another email.

Do not fuck these bugs, you little scallop sack. Do not even THINK about fucking bugs when I am talking to you.

I’m sorry, Sebastian, that was harsh. I should be calmer. I know it’s hard for you, Sebastian. A man with your disposition, he gets urges sometimes. We’ve all been there, it’s something we’ve all been through. But you have to overcome it. You’re about to come of age, and I know this world holds many wondrous things for you, many new things that you are about to experience for the first time. Turning 30 is really quite something.

But the one thing you must always remember is that I am your legally appointed guardian and it will always be my business what goes on in your bedroom. Or across a cot of shimmering laurels on the floor of a glistening forest. Or in the thick, warm mud of some South American swamp. Or in the majestic hive of some colony of worker bees. Or in the viscous sap of a tall, tall Douglass Fir. These things are my responsibility to know and scold you for, and as thus, I will always be watching you from a distance of 15 feet. Enough to give you your privacy while still maintaining a firm grasp of control upon you, as you are the only thing left in my life that I can assert power over.

To make things easier for you, Sebastian, I have collected these bugs for you here so that I may explicitly show you which bugs you are forbidden to have sexual relations with.

1. The Juice Bug

The Juice Bug is the most succulent of beasts. I see the way that you stare at its abdomen, that juicy hind section, and the tantalizing way its wings fold up underneath it. But tell me Sebastian, is it really worth it? Try not to see this bug as a mere receptacle of lust, but as a wonderful creation, beyond objectification.

2. The Spotted Wingdinger

Ah yes, Sebastian. He is a beaut, ain’t he? But it is the case Sebastian, that a man of your age must learn to look upon beauty with refined sensibilities. Can’t something still have beauty without sexual attraction? Can you not look upon such fine wings and say “Wow, what a pretty bug and I’m not just saying that because I want to stick my penis inside of him. I actually appreciate him from an aesthetic standpoint, and my urge to ejaculate has since receded.” This is all I ask of you.

3. The Crawling Melonspear

Calm your breathing, Sebastian. I said calm it. This one gets me heated too. But I have since learned to keep such feelings at bay. I have long known the throws of lust, but longer have I known the power of repression.Get your hand away from there. You filthy sack of philtered fuck. I am about to let you out of the house for the first time in your life, and this is how you scorn my generous freedom? Take note Sebastian: My pupils are dilated too. Rome was not built in a day, and neither were my deeply rooted-psychological barriers of sexual restraint. Let me help you. Here, let’s try another.

4. The Fat Lady, And All The Juice That She Bears

Oh yes. You wish to know her in the most biblical sense. She is a lovely lady indeed, but do you not remember our conversation about the Spotted Wingdinger?Well imagine that they are in love. Do you want to break up that relationship? Could you let your lust chip away at such a beautiful bond? These two live together, they breath together. They hold hands when they walk through the park. They kiss each other in the pouring rain. They make the most intimate love behind closed doors. They leave a camera on sometimes to record all the naughty discourse. Sometimes the blinds are open for the neighbors to see. The Fat Lady wears a chain around her neck, and the Spotted Wingdinger puts on that pair of tights, you know the one, Sebastian, you know it so well. And sometimes the Crawling Melonspear comes by, and he loves them both. He loves them both, and the Fat Lady she gets especially bothered when he loves her precious Spotted Wingdinger. Oh she loves to watch from the corner, she loves to hold the camera and watch them go at it. And who’s this, watching from the ventilation shaft? It could only be the Juice Bug. And she’s brought gifts, oh little gifts, little trinkets, little chains, little sticks and stones and goopy potions. And then together on the bed, all together on the bed, yes, they all writhe, they all scream, yes, they shout in the throws of passion. Together, all together, one-in-the-same and it’s all about love, but in some ways it isn’t? In some ways the Wingdinger yearns to be a receptacle for lust, in some ways the Wingdinger just wants the Melonspear to use him, to hurt him, to make him feel like he’s just been thrown aside—SEBASTIAN, NO! Oh my sweet lips, you kissed my sweet lips, you kissed me right upon the mouth. Oh Sebastian, no, this was not my intention. I am five years your junior, do you not worry about the age gap? NO? Age is just a number to you?Oh Sebastian no, I couldn’t. I couldn’t dream of it. Let us forget this ever happened. Let us get back to the matter at hand. Do not fuck the Fat Lady, And All The Juice She Bears, do not even go near her.

5. Actually, This One You Can Fuck

This one is fair game, Sebastian. Fuck it hard.

6. The Last Bug Is…

Oh my Sebastian. You want to know why my visage appears on this screen? Oh dear. Well this is rather awkward.You see, Sebastian… I have told you that you may not fuck these bugs for a reason. I have raised you, and together we have lived for a hundred years. Well it’s seemed that way. But I have been keeping a dark secret from you Sebastian, and now, as you reach the cusp of the prime age of sexual maturity at 30, when a man mosts lusts for the tender appendages and exoskeletons that only bugs can provide… now I must reveal that secret to you.The truth is, Sebastian, I am the last bug you cannot fuck. It is forbidden by the law of the land.But oh, it pains me so. You don’t know how I have yearned for you. Oh my little wings how they ache for your tender touch. This is why I must let you go, Sebastian. This is why I must set you free.Oh love, she is a jealous mistress, Sebastian. She pulls at the heart strings, she is loud, she screams and she wails with envy. This is why you cannot fuck these other bugs Sebastian, because I will be watching you, and, oh, how it will hurt. You cannot fuck these critters because I cannot bear to see you lie with another bug. It would pierce my heart with an icy stinger to have to watch you cavort with another, to lie under the wisps of a willow tree and watch as you plow them right to kingdom come.

The pain would surely bring me to the grave.Forgive me, Sebastian. Forgive me for everything.

Now go, the door is open. Just go and leave me here to nurse my broken heart. I’ll be along shortly to stalk you from the mandated distance.

Oh my Sebastian, he leaves me and he is weeping. He is broken, he is shattered. I watch him go, and as he walks up the stairs I see the shape of his round, plump, thirty-year-old buttocks receding into the distance. They are the buttocks that I will never know, they are the love that I will never have. Oh my Sebastian, my sweet sweet Sebastian. Why must God be so cruel to us.

In the early hours of March 14th, Hofstra University closed its campus due the heavy snowstorm that was projected to hit. However, this did not deter one student from showing off his legs to everyone who didn’t want to see them. Phi Delta Theta member Rex Whiteman, was discovered dead, face down into the snow, possibly trying to make his way to Dutch Treats.

Authorities only discovered him when they saw his ugly Nike highlight yellow shorts poking out of the snow. While the shorts definitely did not match the rest of the dead boy’s outfit, they did help Public Safety officers find him. When approaching the body, officers found his knock-off Beats By Dre headphones playing a one-track loop of How Far I’ll Go by Moana. Obviously, he did not go very far.

The coroner confirmed that Whiteman’s legs finally shut down after never being clothed for three years. The snow latched on to his pleading skin, and slowly his legs turned blue before he fell. Without the use of his legs, the boy slowly froze to death behind Estabrook. Apparently, no one in the building wanted to help him.

When asked about the event, Rex’s roommate, Kevin James, a student that is not the actor—but basically looks and acts just like him—said“He is fucking idiot, man. A waste a space. Honestly we’ve all been waiting.”

Rex’s mother, Gina Whitewoman, said “I buy him so many pairs of pants. Why did he never wear them? He never even went to the gym! His legs didn’t look that good.”

Rex Whiteman’s funeral was held today, March 15th. However, since classes weren’t cancelled, many students were unable to attend. The attire was all black, but each attendee was forced to brandish a Nike logo somewhere on their outfit. Mountain Dew was the sole refreshment served, and only in shot glasses.

Yes, you read that correctly. No, I’m not going to post it. Don’t ask me about it again.

Here I was, reading my daily horoscope in the paper when I noticed it. I’m a Scorpio (and shut the fuck up before you say anything to me about that), but after dating Mitch for two weeks I thought it was about time that I begin projecting some pre-determined characteristics onto him, so I went to read his Sagittarius horoscope and there it was. I could hardly believe I hadn’t noticed it before.

Now, I’ve been into Astrology for quite some time, but I’ve never really been as committed to it as I am after this. In this new world of revelation, I know that every word of it is fucking true, and I’m freaking out.

My ex was a Cancer, and we never got around to fucking (if you must know), but you better believe I messaged her to ask if her breasts had ridges both above and below them that formed The Sign Of The Crab.

She blocked me on all forms of social media after that, but I am nothing if not resilient. I managed to track down her ex and got the details: as it turns out, she totally does look that way. It’s a little fucked up if you think about it, I guess. (but so is the bow thing? I’m not even gonna describe to you what sex is like, but don’t necessarily take that to mean that it’s all bad!)

Anyways, I’ve taken this all to mean that Astrology is 100% real. I mean, there’s no way this could ALL be a coincidence right? People always say that Astrology only works because it’s all written just broadly enough, but there’s no possible way that could explain any of this, right? Also: all of my horoscopes have been coming true.

Like last week, I was told that I’d be facing a big problem, and it happened! Turns out I have anal fissures. Monday, I was told that I’d be facing a big storm, and if you catch my drift, that big storm ejaculated all over my face. Tuesday’s just said: “You’re gonna have sex with your boyfriend’s freaky dick.” Most of my horoscopes seem to center around my boyfriend’s abnormal penis, but I’m past it. I love Mitch, and I especially love his weird cock.

And if you’re curious, here’s today’s horoscope:

“Dark clouds looms over you, Scorpio. This could involve a person in your love life, or someone with which you have been very intimate with, but it is certain that injury will come your way, and you may face certain death by impalement.”

Working frantically to dispose of the lifeless, shriveled husks that cover the floor, a White House Janitor admitted today that she is tired of cleaning dead objects out of Steve Bannon’s office.

“It never stops. Every evening I come in and there’s something new lying on the carpet,” she says, glancing furtively over her shoulder to make sure Bannon has left. “I always make sure to come extra late, because the last time I ran into him here he brandished an ornate dagger at me and asked me to look upon the engravings with respect. He said ‘This has been passed down for generations among the patriarch of my family. The artist who made it now burns in hell, for his soul can never be clean.’ What a weird guy, am I right?”

When asked what kind of dead objects she tends to find, the White House Janitor, Lucy Phillipps, merely shrugs.

“Lots of things. The more appropriate question would be ‘what haven’t you found?’” She says. “We’re talking rats, cats, mice, otters, butterflies, badgers, little snakes, big snakes, really big snakes, and lots and lots of crows. Always big black birds, ravens sometimes too. One time I found this big bird looking thing with sharp claws and a woman’s face. Steve lingered long enough to tell me it was called a ‘harpy’, before vanishing into the shadows as he usually does. Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen him truly walk out the door.”

When interviewed for comment, the White House Florist expressed a similar frustration.

“Oh, I hate working in Steve’s office,” the florist, Daniel Jenkins, says. “Every potted plant I’ve ever put in there has shriveled up into ashy little husks. I have to scoop them out daily, and throw them away. Even the fake ones I put in there managed to die somehow!”

Asked if he finds any of this behavior unusual, Jenkins shakes his head. “He can be stressful to clean up after, but it’s no skin off my back. I’ve worked here for many years and there have always been strange ones that come and go. Occasionally Steve looks at me weird, and I can hear the screaming of my loved ones playing on loop in the back of my head, but at the end of the day he’s still my boss, and I’ve got to respect that. Sometimes, in the mornings, when he comes in after a late night of binge drinking and what I assume to be shrill screaming over an open fire—as his voice is always pretty warn and he smells of smoke—he’ll let me take a shot out of his flask. It’s like nothing I’ve ever had before, and it smells real foul, but I’ve come to like the taste of it. Sort of, uh, metallic, I think?”

At press time, reporters were barred from the White House, but for an actual legitimate reason this time, as the medical staff rushed to deal with a fallen dignitary. When pressed for comment a White House Official only offered that Mr. Bannon “probably forgot to wear his gloves again.”

You will stop right there when you are addressing me. I have come out into this vile café for peace. Perhaps I expected a request for an autograph, perhaps I expected adoration, perhaps I even expected some respect, but I have received neither, and especially not from you. “The Sky Is The Limit”? Is this paltry expression your attempt at positive reassurance? Do you even know who I am?

Let me explain something to you, fool.

Yes, you. I am talking to you, do not deny this any longer.

I am the one who goes into space. It is me. It is likely that you are not familiar with the demands of my profession, so I will construct for you a quick lesson.

We live on the earth. It is round and stinky and full of bugs.

Above the earth is the sky, where great winged beasts build houses out of small dogs they stole from suburban back yards, and where God’s little feet rest when they are being tired.

Are you following me so far?

Above this sky, is a place where titans play games. A place where big honchos like me go to score some space meat, where throbbing rockets dance across the primordial plane and fondle the genitalia of constellations that small, small children like you have stared at your whole lives. A place where fleshbags like me become gods.

This is the place where I do my bidding. The stars are my home, my lovers, my friends. And you? You stay stuck to a wall, slurping little bugs, little rodents, as they pass across your vile paper visage.

This locale is known as “Space”, you ignorant dog, and it is well above the confines of the meager sky. I go here while you sit sucking on your little thumb. I go here while Elon Musk strokes his rigid dome into a stock photo of the Martian moons. I go here while all the world lays sleeping, dreaming of being as radiant as me.

I am The One Who Dares Explore The Unknown. I am bound by no limits of the sky and its beasts, its doghouses, its godly feet. I am an Astronaut, you fell swine, and I demand respect. I am the mother of science, the very teat upon which the rest of the human race suckles. I am the hope for the future, the divine, the inimitable ‘Naut (this is what my friends call me) who holds, in his hands, the ability to shape the fate of all time and space. I am a god among men, and you, you are just a stupid poster.

So the next time you dare tell me the sky is the limit, just remember that when you look up at the stars I will be staring down at you. I will collect all the spit into a ball between my teeth and drench you with my mouth juice from so very far away. It will take a long time to get there. It may not all be intact. It may be frozen from the vacuum of space. But I will drench you, and upon this wettening, you will know that you have caused me extreme offense.

Well, am I?? I don’t think my question deserves to go unanswered just because you’re an officer of the law. I’m being treated unfairly here! There is no way our founding fathers intended to create a system where people are convicted of murder just because they committed an act of homicide at the behest and instruction of an individual temporarily know as Simon. That is like, the exact kind of shit that made them fight for independence from the British Empire. Didn’t you learn anything about American History?

Well whatever my dude, stay ignorant. I can fucking see the killer standing right over there, twiddling his stupid 10-year-old thumbs. Look at the way he’s fucking bawling, it looks so goddamn staged. If my eyes were all puffy and red, would you be cutting me any slack? That little sonofabitch is guilty of murder. That’s Simon, he’s the one you want!

Alright, well, I think his name is David, but for all of 10 minutes he was Simon and that’s the reason that girl died. Case closed! Have you even questioned him? Are you not concerned at all that a 10-year-old told me to kill one of his friends? Well, I guess Lisa wasn’t really his friend. She’s friends with Damien, and Corey told me they’re kind of a package deal when it came to handing out the invites. Anyways, either way, that kid is fucked up, dude! You’ve gotta send him straight to fucking juvey before he does this shit again!

Yeah, I know that I’ve got literal blood on my hands, but I was just beholden to the rules of his game! Sure, you’re right, sir, nobody else made a move to kill her but that’s just because I’m better at competitive games than they are. I fucking won, ok? I played by the rules, but I hardly think my incredible prowess and super precision knife skills are what we need to be focusing on here.

Though, by the way, if you do want focus on them, would you maybe wanna get drinks later, Officer? I’m a total loose cannon, maybe I could show you a few tricks or two. We’re talking really rough, really jagged, really wild fighting style, but it’s got this precise edge to it, it’s got this crazy edge, and that’s how you get ‘em. Then we could take it back to my place, maybe have some wild crazy sex, but with an edge, you know what I mean? Are you interested in knife play at all, sir?

What’s that? Yeah, that is my knife in her chest. No, I can’t tell you where I got it, but I can tell you it was made special. That’s stainless steel, and it cost me a lot of money so be careful with it buddy. Make sure you get all the blood off of it before I get it back, this shit is my life, man. It’s what I wake up for. All those kids thought that knife was so fucking cool, so fucking great and shiny, until we started playing Simon Says and David, acting under the authorital power that is Simon, forced me stab Lisa with it. Ugh, this is the last time I show up uninvited to a kid’s birthday party, I’ll tell you that much.

Stop that! Stop cuffing me. I’ve got sensitive wrists and I bruise like a peach! Oh man, you’ve got nice hands. Hey quick question if I say your name does that mean your body can and will be held against me in a court of law?

What’s that? Officer Simon? Well this is a fucking coincidence. Oh, you bet I’ll do whatever you want me to do, Officer. 😉

It all started when I saw Anderson Cooper on TV. I could do little more than imagine that sultry, silver-tongued silver fox drag his meaty tongue all over my yearning, naked flesh. My parents realized this after my dad seized my stash of Playboys only to realize that each of the women’s faces were replaced by the face of Mr. Cooper himself. They thought I was gay. I wasn’t gay, though, I just thoroughly enjoyed professional news reporting. I asked Yahoo if I had to be gay now, they said no and posted some, what I can only speculate are called, reaction jiffys of small men rubbing towels in, near, and around their respective perineums. I think it checked out. I asked my gym bros and they told me they don’t remember any time in which our balls audibly smacked together and I made sure to say “No homo” every time I gagged on my toothbrush. My nan told me that it’s a healthy developmental process for young lads such as myself to be strongly drawn towards doctors and white-haired reporting moguls.

Ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper I would play doctor and my parents would point and laugh until I would persistently try to put the stethoscope in my rectum. It wasn’t gay though, I mean, I didn’t think so. It seems pretty straight to me to want to hear what goes on inside the good ol’ poop shoot. I was never really all that religious either, by the way. The only god I knew was daytime television star, Ryan Seacrest. You know, sometimes I would sit there and laugh to myself repeating the name “Ryan Wannaseemybreasts” but that’s slightly besides the point.

I’m a World War One enthusiast. Anyway, my parents tried praying the gay away but I told them there was no gay to pray away and that my name was Clay and I liked to play on the bay with some hay, okay? But anyway, all that poetry only led to my parents whisking me away to the nearest hospital to be operated on immediately. The objective of the surgery: To remove the part of my brain that made me gay.

As I lay on the operating table, cold and vulnerable, a scrub wearing scrubs told me that I was lucky, that the mysterious and ever-so seductive Doctor RJ Shafty would be operating on me.

“Doctor Shafty? I’ve certainly never heard of him!” I said, feeling even more cold and lifeless for not being in the loop.

At that exact, very, precise moment, the double doors slammed open as Dr. Shafty himself surveyed the room and also my penis.

“Well, you’ve heard of me now,” he said, licking his lips all the while. I’m pretty sure there was some sort of grammatical error in saying that, but I was foolish to question a real, live doctor. Instead, I nervously asked him if he knew about how Harold Gillies birthed the field of plastic surgery during WWI due to the increased demand from soldiers with horribly disfigured faces from shrapnel blasts and gunshot wounds.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” I whispered to myself, because I’m a fucking idiot. Of course he knows! He’s a doctor, fuck crying out loud.

“Alright, let’s cut this bitch up,” he said, ignoring every stupid word that came out of my shrimp-like mouth and making sure to make eye contact with every other person in the room, except for me that is, but I’m not really a person.

“Hey are you sure this is safe?” I asked.

“Of course it’s safe, I graduated from Hofstra University!”

Before I knew it, my scalp was being removed. He figured anesthesia was “for pussies” and so each second was a new experience for me. It was agonizing and enlightening. I was euphoric.

“Doctor, are you sure you know what you’re doing?” asked one of the foolish interns.

“Get the fuck out of my operating room,” replied the overwhelmingly masculine doctor.

The intern stripped naked and left the room as less of a person than before.

“Doctor, we’re losing him!” exclaimed one of those other surgery people that weren’t anywhere near as important as Dr. Shafty.

“No we’re not,” insisted the good doctor while turning to one of the female surgery people. “After all, I’m a doctor.”

She swooned and fainted immediately, leaving a butter knife in my kidney.

After a few more minutes of excruciating agony, Dr. RJ Shafty raised a piece of my brain and shouted “Eureka!” as doctors do, “I’ve got it!”

All other doctors removed their hands from my once innocent body and applauded the good doctor, sobbing all the while.

The good doctor removed the part of my brain that made me funny.

I had to admit though, he certainly was a meaty shaft man. He didn’t notice but several hypodermic needles fell out of his pocket when he was performing his ritual post-successful surgery jumping jacks. Of course, he’s never failed a single surgery. It’s hard to fail surgery when each one of those hypodermic needles were filled with shark testosterone. By the looks of it, they could have only been injected into his scrotum. I wouldn’t know though, after all I’m not a doctor.

Hours later, I left the establishment feeling a little pensive and hating myself a little more than I thought possible. I also kind of looked like a bloated Barbara Streisand but it was lit, nonetheless. World War One? Yeah more like World War Won.

I went back home and my parents embraced me. My father shook my hand unbeknownst to the fact that I used that very hand to masturbate to Anderson Cooper’s cute little half smirk half an hour earlier in the hospital bathroom.

I realized that the parts of my brain that Dr. Shafty removed were my humor receptors when I soiled my pants laughing at the fact that my grandpa mistakenly removed his trousers while looking for the 1956 memorabilia section of an Ikea. The story was only partially humorous.

To add insult to injury, every time I tried delivering a knock-knock joke, I instead found myself advocating for GreenPeace; I needed training.

I had no time to worry about such matters, I had a university to go to. Weeks after that, I found the perfect place to sharpen my sense of humor and cry about my small legs.

Nonsense Humor Magazine adopted me. I’ve been here for a decent enough time but no one has taught me how to be funny yet. This article isn’t even that funny. That’s okay, at least I told an upperclassman to “keep the change” in monopoly and that was the closest I’ve ever been to what my therapist calls an ‘anxious externally induced orgasm uh’ or AEIOU for short.

I really miss my grandpa.

All in all, it was a pretty well-balanced album but I would have to give it an 8/10 at most. It was fairly relatable and you can tell Future is attempting to step out of his comfort zone to deliver content that has been sorely lacking in the ska industry.